


Overtime

by red_as_ever



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2721059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_as_ever/pseuds/red_as_ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill for the shipping jamboree: "They meet when he crashes his car into the living room." Metadata (Maine/Delta)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overtime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Churbooseanon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/gifts), [Saereneth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saereneth/gifts).



Icy rain slicked the city streets smooth during Delta’s shift. Not for the first time, he wishes he didn’t have to work nights. Though with the roads glazed over, he doesn’t envy the EMTs on duty this morning. His commute home had been precarious enough; he doesn’t want to imagine paramedics skidding through traffic on their way to do their job. All Delta wants now is a shower and sleep.

His hand is on the bathroom doorknob when he hears the shriek of skidding brakes, a dull thud. He’s just reached the living room when something smashes through the front wall. Stumbling back from the shower of dust and brick bits and shattered glass, he sees the fender of a white car crash into the back of his sofa.

He’s going to need his trauma kit. And his phone.

He emerges from his room several minutes later, still on the line with emergency services, and finds the driver still slouched in the front seat. It’s like being at work all over again. Glass crunching beneath his shoes, he circles to the other side of the car that has propped itself up on the remains of his windowsill. 

Opening the door takes a minute. While it isn’t locked, it’s jammed against the bricks and Delta can’t get the right angle to pull it open. The driver watches him from the interior of the car. A bald head slumps against the headrest—not old-bald but shaved-bald. The engine no longer hums from inside, so he was conscious long enough to turn it off, even though he may not be now.

Delta braces one leg on the sill and one leg on the lawn. Gritting his teeth, he yanks on the handle. Metal screams against brick. The door grates open, then swings free. Delta looks up into a pair of brown eyes dilated with shock. Well, there goes asking if he’s all right.

“I’m an EMT,” he says instead. “I’m here to assist, but I need your permission.”

The man nods. Delta catches himself admiring that strong jaw, those powerful cheekbones, and reminds himself to be professional. To focus.

“I’m sorry, I need you to vocalize it. If you can.” Rules are rules, and even though the man crashed through his wall, Delta could still be held liable without that verbal contract.

The driver presses his eyes shut. Breathes in deep before opening them again. “Please,” he says. “Help.”

“All right,” Delta says. 

First: assessing the situation. Given the state of the door, the car is stuck fast. Delta worries about the cold, though. He’ll have to check the neck and spine before he can move him inside.

“Can you please tell me your name?” he asks. Not just from curiosity but from a need to check his breathing.

“Maine,” the man says. His voice rumbles through his chest, not hitched in pain but edged in what sounds like panic.

“All right, Maine. I’m going to take your blood pressure and I need you to answer some questions for me.” He pulls out the blood pressure cuff and straps it around Maine’s muscular arm.

A massive hand grabs him just inside the elbow. Anxiety swells in his chest until he realizes how Maine shakes. Then he blushes, wishes he could hold his hand in return.

He hates this part. The moment when his patients look to him for comfort, for reassurances. For promises he can’t legally make. So instead he asks the questions. Gets Maine to wiggle his toes (they’re fine but getting cold) and evaluate his pain level (maybe a two out of ten) and pinpoint his pain. The beep of the blood pressure monitor interrupts him. Normal, the display says. Maybe even a little high.

“Looks good,” Delta tells him. He slips off the cuff. It means pulling his arm free. The tremor in Maine’s hand has eased; Delta finds he misses the warmth of his touch. “I need to check your neck and chest next. It means taking off your jacket.” 

Maine nods. He closes his eyes again. Mercifully, because Delta blushes when he unzips the down jacket.

“If anything hurts, please tell me.” He should be able to tell, given their proximity, but he says it just in case.

Maine still wears a turtleneck; gauging the thickness with his fingertips, Delta decides he should be able to feel through this just fine. He is a professional: he does _not_ consider asking Maine to remove his shirt, too. Starting at the base of the ribcage, he runs his fingers along each individual rib. Several ribs up, Maine twitches. Delta yanks his hand back. “Did I—“

“Sorry,” Maine grunts. “Ticklish.”

Delta wonders if he’ll ever get to take advantage of that.

When his assessment is done and Maine is safe to move, Delta helps him out of the car. Maine’s hands have steadied enough that he can let himself down. Delta’s grateful. Not only does he doubt his strength, he doesn’t trust himself. It’s bad enough that he holds the door for him and lets him arm linger by his elbow when he leads him in.

Delta settles him in an overstuffed chair, the one that isn’t covered in broken glass. “I’ll be right back.” He needs to keep Maine warm, and the ruined window doesn’t help. Maybe something warm to drink. Not coffee—he needs calm, not caffeine. Hot chocolate, perhaps? He’s sure he has a few packets leftover from the last time Theta visited. He puts the milk on the stove to heat and heads to his room for a blanket.

He doesn’t stay to help with the blanket, especially not to settle it in Maine’s lap. Instead he walks back to the kitchen. The chair creaks behind him; Maine has stood up.

“Please, sit,” Delta says. “I’m just warming up some cocoa.”

Confusion and amusement light those large eyes. “I can’t help?”

“You need to take it easy,” Delta chides. His hand on Maine’s arm guides the man back to his seat. He doesn’t resist.

His eyes don’t leave Delta, not even when he comes back with the drinks. He accepts the drink with a “Thank you.”

Delta wants to say something else. Anything. But he’s a professional and Maine seems to be a man of few words. They sip their cocoa in companionable silence that only breaks when the sirens sound. Then the house is awash with officers and paramedics who sweep the two of them apart.

This, he tells himself, is the real reason you don’t get too attached to patients.

A hand on his shoulder attracts his attention. Turning, he sees Maine standing behind him.

“I need your number,” he says. Delta doesn’t know how to respond to that. “For the insurance.”

Oh.

“And I owe you a hot chocolate.”

Delta smiles. “I will take you up on that, Maine.”


End file.
